


A Waking Dream

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a particularly difficult case, Holmes writes Watson a letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Waking Dream

My Dear Watson,  
This is a letter that I may regret writing, but if there is even the smallest chance that it might have a positive response, I cannot keep myself from doing so. I hope I may trust your generous nature to keep me from destroying our friendship with one ill-advised missive. It would not be the first time that I have pushed too far, relying on your patience and loyalty to forgive my errors.

But I am coming close to rambling; this is no way to start out. I resolved to set this in writing rather than speak to you face-to-face in order to avoid such prevarications. 

Here, then, is an account of the events that occurred on the evening of the 27th of last month, between the time I came upon you in the kidnappers' hut and we arrived at the home of Doctor Sawyer. I gave you a brief overview the next day, when it became clear you had no memories of it – a fact I was glad of at the time, because it was an evil few hours, and you were in a great deal of pain. Any recollection you could have had of it would not have been pleasant.

However, the passage of time has brought me no clear answers on a number of questions that were raised by that evening. These questions fall into the messy realm of the emotions, which I am not adequately equipped to traverse without guidance, so it is my intention to lay out for you all the facts as I experienced them, in the hopes that you will draw the same conclusions that I find myself wishing to draw, and that they, along with this letter, may give you the courage to act on them that I lack.

If you disagree with my hypothesis, my dear Watson, I hope you will forgive me this violation of our friendship, disregard this letter entirely, and allow us to continue as we are now. If the potential rewards were not so great, I would not risk this at all.

You are aware, I know, of the case that took us out into the countryside and the clues that led me to conclude that there were four possible places that the kidnappers might have taken Lady Godwin. You are also aware of the two errors of judgement I made at that point: splitting us up in order to search the four locations faster, which left you vulnerable to attack, and assuming that because only two men had been present when Lady Godwin's coach was stopped, there were only two involved at all.

That these errors led to you encountering that villainous band alone and that you were hurt in the ensuing fight will always be a source of sorrow for me, my dear friend. When you failed to arrive out our agreed rendezvous, I tracked your path to the barn where you were overcome, and was able to discern from the available data that you had been taken from that place whilst still alive.

It took me nearly twenty hours to find where they had taken you, the last hour of which was a horseride across the hills, tracking their path and hoping that I would find you before the light failed. When I finally found the ramshackle hut where they had abandoned you on their way to the coast with Lady Godwin, you were collapsed on the bed, and so still and pale that for several excruciating moments I thought I had come too late, and that you were dead.

However, you stirred as I dropped to my knees at your side and I was able to see that you were merely suffering from the effects of cold, hunger and the wound on your head. The villains had left you without even a coat, handcuffed to a bed that barely deserved that name, so I stripped off my own and covered you with it, which roused you enough to open your eyes.

“My dear Holmes,” you said in a voice that was weak enough to cause my worry to grow, then you put your hand on my cheek. I'm not sure if I was more startled by the gesture or by how very cold it was. I took it in both of my hands in an effort to warm it.

“Watson,” I said, “is it only your head that is injured?”

You gave me an unfocused look. “My head?” you asked, sounding confused.

I needed to get you to a doctor and extremely quickly, but the nearest doctor was several miles away across open countryside. The only transportation available was the horse I had ridden there on, and for a moment I considered leaving you while I fetched help. Even if the idea had not been abhorrent to me on an emotional level, it would not have been practical. The hut was far too cold to leave a man with a head wound in for what would likely have been several hours.

I satisfied myself that you weren't injured elsewhere and removed the handcuffs, then took both your hands again. Partially to keep them warm – your hands are one of your most important attributes and it would have been horrific if they'd been damaged by frostbite – but also as a comfort to both myself and, I hope, to you.

“Watson, we need to get you to a doctor,” I said. “Are you able to stand up?”

“I'm a doctor,” you responded, ignoring the question. “Are you injured?” You struggled to sit up then, reaching out for me as if you were in any fit state to deal with anyone else's injuries.

“I am fine,” I said.

“Oh, good,” you said. “I can't stand it when you're hurt.” You slumped back against the wall, closing your eyes for a moment then opening them wide. In that situation, watching you suffer and unable to help, I was able to empathise entirely with your statement, although I did not say as much. 

“You are the one hurt,” I said. “It is vital we get you to a doctor, Watson.” I helped you up from the bed and it became clear that your balance was askew, necessitating a strong arm to keep you upright. I wrapped you in my coat, having to guide your limbs into the sleeves as you lacked all coordination.

“Holmes,” you muttered. “Let me stay in bed, you infuriating man. I'm tired.”

“Out of the question,” I said. “You must stay awake.”

You let out a heartfelt groan at that, which I ignored as thoroughly as I did your muttered and confused complaints as I helped you outside, to where I had left the horse.

Getting you on the horse was a difficult trial that I will not go into here. Suffice to say that by the time you were astride and able to stay so for longer than a few seconds, I had realised that my original plan to lead you on the horse as we headed back to civilisation was not going to work.

We were lucky that the horse I had borrowed from Lord Godwin was both large and exceptionally steady. It took my efforts to get you up on its back with remarkable stoicness, even as you clutched at its neck to avoid falling. I hoped that its sedate nature would hold and mounted it behind you, gripping you around your waist as the move disrupted your seat, sending you sliding sideways.

“Steady, old fellow,” I said, and you sank back against me, resting your entire weight on me and tipping your head back to lean on my shoulder.

“I feel awful,” you said. “My head aches.”

“Undoubtedly,” I said, attempting to gather the reins in one hand without dislodging you, and kicking the horse forward. Understandably, it was disinclined to move, but I managed to persuade it to head off eventually. It had taken me an hour to reach the hut from Godwin Manor, and the village where the doctor resided was another fifteen or twenty minutes farther. Moving at a pace more suited to two men astride the same horse, it was unlikely we would arrive within two hours. 

“You must hold on, Watson,” I said. “It is imperative that you stay awake.”

You let out another groan at that, pulling your head up from my shoulder briefly before letting it fall again, apparently incapable of supporting it yourself. “You always ask so much of me.”

That caused me a pang of guilt. It was my fault you were in that predicament after all, and it was not the first time that my actions have caused you discomfort or pain. Nevertheless, I held firm.

“And I shall continue to do so,” I said. “Stay awake, Watson.”

You did your best. The horse walked on – far too slowly for me, but all I felt I could ask from it without risking a rebellion – and I held you up, keeping you pressed closely against my chest as you shifted and muttered to yourself, running through medical facts as a way to keep yourself awake. The journey seemed to go on forever, especially when it began to rain in a fine, cold drizzle that soaked straight through my clothes. I could only hope that the protection my coat afforded you kept you somewhat drier and hold you even closer in the hopes that the warmth of my body might counteract the cold of the weather.

Your muttering became less and less coherent as time passed, descending into little more than a mumble. I attempted to pull you back to full consciousness by asking you questions, but at the time you assured me that the metatarsal bones were in the hand, I began to worry that I would lose you before we made it to the doctor.

“Watson,” I said rather desperately. “Watson, you have to concentrate. Focus on my voice and try to wake up.”

You shifted, head flopping against my shoulder. “Holmes,” you exhaled. “I don't like this.”

“Me neither, old fellow,” I said. “Not much longer, though. Just stay with me.” We were still at least half an hour away from help, but I have never been afraid to tell necessary lies.

“I am with you,” you said, but your voice began to wander again on the last word.

“John Watson,” I hissed in your ear. “You are not allowed to go to sleep. You can't leave me like this.”

“Don't be a fool,” you slurred. “I would never leave you.” I had strong reason to disbelieve you, as your body was little more than dead weight in my arms. I can only blame that and the state of extreme tension I had been in since you disappeared, allowing no time for sleep and little for eating, so that my own mental state was less than sanguine, for my next actions.

“Then wake up,” I hissed, then pressed a kiss against your cheek. “I need you.”

Writing those words is a great deal harder than I should have imagined. Truths so absolute are often difficult to lay out in black and white, and there are few facts in my world more absolute than that one.

You roused enough at it to lift your head. “Holmes,” you said, then took a deep shuddering breath, and started to list the bones of the hand again. You managed to get most of them right, so I left you to it in favour of coaxing the horse to move faster.

We continued our journey and I began to think that we would make it to help without further drama, and that entire evil night would be swiftly put behind us, so that I might refocus my energies on Lady Godwin without fear for your safety. Then you gasped out my name and gave a full-body shudder that upset the horse almost as much as me, then collapsed back against me like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

That moment is also difficult to set down on paper. Even recollecting how I was half-convinced you were about to die in my arms is hard enough, without putting words to it. I shall soldier on, however. I have promised you the facts, and you shall have them.

The horse gave a distressed whinny and pulled at the reins, but I was barely able to even notice. I must admit that I became rather frantic, repeating your name in increasingly desperate tones. I am not sure what else I said – sentimentality is not my forte, so I suspect it was a stream of threats and demands rather than anything of a softer nature - but I do know I took the liberty of stealing another kiss, this time one pressed against your lips.

I am aware that I should apologise for that, Watson, but I doubt I will ever have the will to. If it had come at any other time, with you in any other state, it would count amongst my fondest memories.

You rallied at that, to my great relief, and you said my name as your eyelashes flickered. My name, said in such a tone, after such an act – Watson, it has been that piece of evidence, combined with the touch of your hand against my cheek in the hut, that has led me to write this account. There are other factors, of course – I would not risk so much on just two pieces of evidence – but those are key ones.

You opened your eyes, although I do not believe you were seeing much of what was in front of them. I returned my attention to urging on the horse, aware that you might succumb again at any moment, but you were able to maintain some sort of consciousness until we arrived at Doctor Sawyer's house. Once he had reassured me that warmth and rest would see you well again, and I had seen you put to bed and on your road to recovery, I took that poor long-suffering beast back to Godwin Manor and informed Lord Godwin of where his wife's kidnappers were likely to be, given the clues I had observed in the hut.

When I returned to Doctor Sawyer's, you were peacefully sleeping in his guest bed. I sank into the chair next to it and allowed myself to rest, finally. The wound on your head had been bandaged and the colour had returned to your face, and you looked a thousand times better than you had on the back of that damnable horse.

I found myself sinking into a reverie as I watched you sleep. I let myself think of your responses to me and started trying to gauge whether I should allow myself hope in the face of them, but was unable to reach any conclusions. I hoped so much that it might mean you carried in your heart stronger feelings for me than had previously been apparent, just as I do for you, but the evidence was not strong enough for me to be certain.

Since you awoke with little or no memory of the night, I have continued to weigh those same facts over in my mind but have not been able to make any decisions, and so, in desperation, have found myself writing this letter.

My dearest Watson, I cannot tell you how much I hope you draw the conclusions that I long to from this account and will respond appropriately, but if you do not, I pray you will excuse that I have written it. If I have read too much into the acts of a sick friend, then I trust you will make allowances for the fact that I have been praying for such a sign for a great many years, and be forgiving. In such a circumstance, I can promise you that I will remain, as I have always been, your friend, and that I will count myself well content to have your friendship in return.

I am rambling again. Time to end this, leave it for you to read, and trust to hope.

Yours always,  
Sherlock Holmes

 

_Holmes,  
I had remembered a great deal more of that night than either of us supposed, but had thought it was merely wishful hallucinations. I am exceedingly glad to find that it was reality. The conclusions I have drawn appear to be similar to your own, and call for me to act upon them immediately. When you arrive back from wherever you have hidden yourself whilst I read this, you will find me in your bedroom, where I hope to demonstrate to you precisely what I mean.  
Yours,  
Watson_


End file.
